Chapter 2
The New York City club scene.
Pounding music that only allows for conversation if you’re a lip-reader. Sweaty guidos in their I’m-too-sexy silk shirts, who think breathing is a sign that you’re interested. Impossibly long lines at the bar and insanely priced watered-down drinks.
Not really my favorite place to be.
I’m more of a bar girl. Bottled beer, jukeboxes, pool tables—I can be quite the pool shark when I need to be.
Not that I haven’t enjoyed a good rave or two in my time.
What? You thought pot was the only illegal substance to grace my bloodstream? Afraid not. Ecstasy, acid, ’shrooms—I’ve tried them all.
You look a little shocked. You shouldn’t be.
The whole drug culture was started by intellectuals in institutions of higher learning. Don’t even try and tell me Bill Gates came up with Windows—a maze of interconnected, multicolored path-ways—without some serious psychedelic assistance.
Anyway, despite my preferences, four weeks after Cabo, Drew and I end up at the hottest club of the moment. With our best friends, Matthew and Delores. To celebrate their first anniversary.
You didn’t know they got married? It was great. Vegas. Need I say more?
Delores is into dance clubs. She enjoys any kind of sensory stimulation. When we were ten, her mother, Amelia, bought her a strobe light for her bedroom. Delores would sit and stare at it for hours, like it was a crystal ball or a Jackson Pollock painting.
Now that I think about that, it explains a lot.
Anyway, see us there? Delores and Matthew are just walking off the dance floor, to where I’m sitting in a circle of trendy over-stuffed red chairs. Drew went to get another round.
I’m just too damn tired to dance tonight. Delores falls into the chair next to me, laughing.
I yawn.
“You look like shit, Petunia.”
A good friend should be able to tell you anything. Maybe your boyfriend’s screwing around, or a dress makes your love handles hang over like a shar-pei’s skin? In either case, if they’re not brave enough to tell it like it is? They’re not your best friend.
“Thanks, Dee Dee. Love you too.”
She flips her long blond hair back, crimped and shining with glitter for this evening’s festivities. “I’m just saying, you look like you could use a spa day.”
She’s not wrong. I’ve been exhausted all week—that full-body type of weariness that feels like you’re carrying weights on your ankles and your ribs. Yesterday, I actually fell asleep at my desk.
Maybe I’m coming down with the flu that’s going around.
Delores fans herself with her hand. “Where the hell is Drew with those drinks? I’m dying here.”
he’s been gone a few minutes, which isn’t unusual in a place like this.
Still, my eyes scan the room.
And then they find him. By the bar, drinks in hand, talking to a woman.
A beautiful blond woman with legs as long as my whole body.
She’s wearing silver stilettos and a sequined minidress. She looks . . . fun. You know the type—one of those cool girls who guys love to hang out with because they burp and watch sports.
She’s smiling.
More important, Drew is smiling back.
And do you see the way she’s leaning toward him? The tilt of her head? The subtle rubbing of her thighs?
They’ve had sex. No doubt about it.
Son of a bitch.
This isn’t the first time I’ve been faced with one of Drew’s past random hookups. In fact, it’s pretty much an everyday occurrence—the waitress at Nobu, the bartender at McCarthy’s Bar and Grill, several random patrons at Starbucks. Drew is polite but brisk, paying them no more attention than an old classmate from high school whose name you can’t quite remember.
So it doesn’t normally bother me.
But like I said, this isn’t a normal week. Fatigue has made me short-tempered. Overly sensitive. Pissed off.
And he’s still f*cking talking to her.
She puts her hand on his arm, and my inner cavewoman pounds her chest like King Kong in drag. There’s an empty glass in front of me. Remember Marcia Brady and the football? Think I could reach them from here?
have you ever noticed that serial killers and mass murderers are almost always male? That’s because men like to spread agony around. Females, however, turn our pain inward. Keep it to ourselves. Let it fester.
Yes, I took Psych 101 in college.
But the point is, instead of going over there and ripping out Blondie’s hair extensions like I want to, I stand up.
“I’m going home.”
Delores blinks. “What? Why?” Then she sees my face. “What the hell did that moron do now?”
Some advice—when you’re angry with your significant other, try not to tell your friends. Because after you’ve forgiven him?
They’ll never forget.
I recommend complaining to his family, instead. They’ve already seen all his negative, selfish, immature traits in full swing— so it’s not like you’re letting the cat out of the bag.
I shake my head, “Nothing. I’m just . . . tired.”
She doesn’t buy it. And her gaze locks on to where I’m still looking. Legs throws her head back and laughs. her teeth are pearly white and perfect. Apparently the bulimia hasn’t rotted the enamel away.
Yet.
Delores turns to her husband. “Matthew, go collect your friend. Before I go over, because then you’ll need a mop to collect him.”
I raise my chin stubbornly, “No, Matthew—don’t. Drew is obviously happy right where he is. Why drag him away?”
Immature? Possibly.
Do I care? Nope.
Matthew looks back and forth between us. Then he rushes off in Drew’s direction.
Dee Dee has him so well trained. She puts the Dog Whisperer to shame.
I hug her good-bye. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
And then I head for the door without looking back.
I’ve never lived by myself.
At eighteen, I went from my parents’ house to a dorm room.
Sophomore year, Billy joined Delores and me in Pennsylvania, and we leased a huge dilapidated house off campus with four other students. The roof leaked and the heat sucked, but the rent was right.
After Delores left for New York, while I was still at Wharton, Billy and I got a place of our own. Then we moved to the city too—and you know the rest.
Why am I telling you this?
Because I’m not as independent as I come off. I’m one of those women. The kind who turns on every light in the house when she’s home by herself. The kind who sleeps over at a friend’s when her boyfriend’s out of town.
I’ve never been alone. Never not had a boyfriend. It’s one of the reasons Billy and I lasted so long—because I preferred an expired relationship to none at all.
When I get back to the apartment, I head to the bedroom and change into a tank top and cherry-colored pajama pants. As I finish washing the makeup off my face, I hear the front door open and close.
“Kate?”
I don’t answer.
his footsteps come down the hall, and a moment later Drew fills the bathroom doorway. “hey. Why’d you leave? I came back with the drinks and Delores starts chucking ice cubes at my head, calling me a shit heel.”
I don’t make eye contact. And my voice is stiff. Dismissive. “I was tired.”
Why don’t I just tell him what’s bothering me? Because this is the game women play. We want you to drag it out of us. To show us you’re interested. It’s a test—to see how much you care.
Drew follows me into the bedroom. “Why didn’t you wait for me? I would’ve come with you.”
I raise my eyes to his. My face is tight, my body tense, ready for battle. “You were otherwise occupied.”
he looks down, eyes squinting. Trying to decode my words.
Then he gives up.
“What are you talking about?”
I spell it out for him.
“The blonde, Drew. At the bar?”
he regards me with curiosity, “What about her?”
“You tell me. Did you f*ck her?”
Drew scoffs. “Of course I didn’t f*ck her. I left two minutes after you did. We both know I last a hell of a lot longer than that.
Or do you need a reminder?”
No, he’s not as obtuse as he seems. It’s kind of brilliant, actually. he’s trying to be cute. Sexy. Trying to distract me.
It’s what he does. And usually it works. But not tonight.
“have you ever f*cked her?”
Drew rubs the back of his neck. “You really want me to answer that?”
That’s a big fat yes, in case you were wondering.
I throw my hands up. “Of course! Of course you screwed her—because God forbid we go one day without seeing someone that your dick isn’t intimately acquainted with! Not that you even remember them, half the time.”
Drew’s eyes narrow, “So which is it? Are you pissed off when I do remember them, or when I don’t? Throw me a clue here, Kate, so I can give you the fight you’re obviously hell-bent on having.”
I pick up my body lotion and rub it swiftly over my arms. “I don’t want to fight—I just want to know why you remember her.”
Drew shrugs, and his tone turns neutral. “She’s a model. her billboard’s in the middle of Times Square. It’s a little hard to forget someone when you see her picture every day.”
And doesn’t that just make me feel so much better.
“how nice for you. Why are you even here then? Why don’t you go back and find your little model, if she means so much to you?”
A small part of me realizes I’m being irrational, but my anger is like a mudslide—now that it’s started, there’s just no way to hold it back.
Drew looks at me like I’ve gone crazy and holds out his hand.
“She doesn’t mean anything to me. You know that. Where the f*ck is this coming from?”
And then a thought occurs to him.
he takes a step back before asking, “Are you due for your period? Don’t freak out—I’m only asking because, the way you’ve been acting lately, I think Alexandra’s title is in jeopardy.”
he could have a point. In high school, there was this hallway, the L wing, that was always really crowded between classes. And I knew my period was coming when I’d walk down that hallway and want to jab my pencil into the neck of the person in front of me.
however—for you guys out there? Even if your girlfriend’s tirade is PMS derived? Don’t point that out to her. It won’t end well for you.
I pick up my shoe and throw it, hitting Drew right between his bright blue eyes.
his hands go to his forehead. “What the shit?! I told you not to freak out!”
Every relationship has a screamer. A thrower. A breaker of things. In this one, that would be me. But it’s not my fault. You can’t blame the nuclear missile for going off after all its buttons have been pushed.
I pick up the other shoe and throw that one too. Drew grabs a pillow and uses it as a shield. I retreat to the closet for more ammo, but he grabs my arm before I can get there.
“Would you f*cking stop! Why are you being like this?”
I glare up at him. “Because you don’t even care! I’m really upset here—and you don’t give a shit!”
his eyes open wide, incredulous.
“Of course I give a shit—I’m the one getting Jimmy Choos thrown at my head like Chinese freaking stars!”
“If you care so much, why don’t you apologize?!”
“Because I didn’t f*cking do anything! I have no problem crawling on my hands and knees when I screw up. But if you think I’m gonna beg because you’ve been possessed by the hormone Demon, you’re out of your mind, sweetheart.”
I break out of his hold and push him on the chest with both hands. “Fine. That’s fine, Drew. I don’t care what you do anymore.”
I grab a blanket and pillow and shove them at him. “But you’re sure as shit not sleeping next to me after you do it. Get out!”
he looks down at the linens. Then back at me. And his face relaxes, turning calm.
Too calm—like the kind before a storm.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
he throws himself on the bed, spreading his arms and legs wide like a kid making a snow angel.
“I happen to like this bed. It’s comfy. Cozy. I’ve made some great memories here. And this is the only place I’m sleeping.”
There’s no point in arguing when Drew gets like this—willful and childish. Sometimes I actually expect him to hold his breath until he gets his way.
I whip the pillow out from under his head, leaving him flat on the mattress, looking up at me.
his brow furrows. “What are you doing?”
I shrug. “I said I’m not sleeping with you. So if you won’t take the couch, I will.”
he sits up. “This is frigging insane, Kate—tell me you realize that. We’re fighting over nothing!”
My voice rises. “So now my feelings mean nothing?”
“I didn’t f*cking say that!”
I point a finger at him. “You said we’re fighting over nothing, and we’re fighting about how you made me feel—so that means you think my feelings are nothing!”
his mouth opens, like a fish searching for oxygen.
“You lost me. I have no idea what you just said.”
I close my eyes. And just like that, my anger deflates.
hurt fills me instead.
“Forget it, Drew.”
As I walk down the hall, his voice follows me.
“What the f*ck just happened?”
I’m too tired to try and explain it anymore. Usually when we argue, I have a hard time falling asleep. I’m too charged up with adrenaline, with passion.
But that’s not a problem tonight. I’m out like a narcoleptic as soon as my head hits the pillow.
Sometime later—could be three minutes or three hours—a warm, hard chest presses against my back, waking me up. I feel his hand on my stomach. he presses his face into my hair and inhales.
“I’m sorry.”
See, boys, that’s all you have to do. Those really are the magic words—capable of overcoming any obstacle.
Even PMS.
I turn in his arms, and look into his eyes. “What are you sorry for?”
Drew’s face goes blank, searching for the correct answer. Then he smirks. “Anything you want me to be sorry for.”
I laugh, but my words are sincere. “No. I’m sorry. You were right—I was just being a bitch. You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m definitely pre-menstrual.”
he kisses my forehead. “It’s not your fault. I totally blame Eve.”
I kiss his lips softly. And then his neck. I trail a path across his chest, moving around his pecs, suddenly awake with the urge to please him. I look up at him. “You want me to make it up to you?”
his fingers trace what I’m sure are dark circles under my eyes.
“You’re exhausted. how about you make it up to me in the morning?”
I pull myself closer and rest my cheek against his skin. I close my eyes, ready to go back to sleep.
Until Drew’s voice breaks the silence.
“Unless . . . you know . . . you really want to make it up to me now. Because if you do, far be it from me to—”
I laugh out loud, cutting off his words as I duck my head under the covers, slowly traveling downward to make it up to him.
In his most favorite way.